


great oaks from little acorns grow

by Glisseo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glisseo/pseuds/Glisseo
Summary: Professors Potter and Longbottom have tea, as they often do.





	great oaks from little acorns grow

Spring had come, bringing with it unpredictable and ever-changing weather. It had looked to be a mild, dry day that morning, when Harry had bounded up the steps to the castle, cloak slung over one shoulder, but by lunchtime the skies had clouded, casting an ominous, yellow-ish light over the grounds. When he headed to his office during his free period, the torches in the corridors had been lit against what was now a sudden storm as the rain hammered down and the wind howled beyond the castle walls. Passing students moving to their next lessons, Harry observed what he had noticed within a few months of teaching: that the swift change in weather seemed to have an immediate effect on them; the volume of their voices increased and they ran about as if buffeted by the gale.   

Perhaps it was a sign of his age, but all the storm made Harry want to do was sit down in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea …  
  
He gently cautioned a group of over-excited first years that nearly knocked him flying and reached his office with some relief, waving his wand to light the lamps. At once the room was flooded with a warm glow.

Harry loved his office. Ginny had helped him decorate, bringing bright, soft cushions for the worn old armchairs and rugs for the stone floor. His desk was by one of the tall windows, as untidy as his desk at the Auror Office had been; only now it was lesson plans and half-marked stacks of essays that were heaped atop it, rather than reports and case files. There was a framed photograph of Dumbledore’s Army at the Quidditch World Cup on one wall; on another, one of his family on their last holiday in Snowdonia. Harry had been thunderstruck – but delighted – to discover that the now-Headmistress, a kindly witch in her fifties named Henrietta (“call me Hetty!”) Bloom had been a firm school friend of his mother. She had been able to regale him with stories about the teenaged Lily, show him photographs and even tell him something about his grandparents. Once of these precious snippets was the information that Harry’s grandfather had been Welsh, and last summer the Potters had spent several weeks exploring the country and the village Mr Evans had come from. Lily – and Petunia, he supposed – had apparently loved their summer holidays there, and Harry had thoroughly enjoyed walking the roads his mother must have walked, imagining the young Lily running madly around as his three children did.

Smiling at the memory, he tapped the kettle to set it boiling and set a heap of marking down beside one of the armchairs. He was searching for a quill when a knock came at the door, and he suppressed a sigh. Harry was very humble about the fact that he seemed to be one of the most popular teachers in the school – he never took it for granted that most students liked and respected him – but it did mean that his free time was often interrupted by those seeking help, either with work or personal troubles, or even more confident pupils stopping by for a chat.  
  
Or even …  
  
“You look a bit damp,” was his greeting to his visitor, when he swung open the door and broke into a grin.  
  
“Just a bit,” said Neville, who was drenched from head to toe. Harry guessed that he had made a frantic dash from the greenhouses to the castle, and that Mr. Filch would not be happy at the wet, muddy footprints no doubt showing his path from the Entrance Hall to Harry’s office.  
  
“I thought you’d liked the outdoors,” Harry joked, standing aside to let Neville shuffle, dripping, inside. “You’re not becoming one of those fair-weather types, are you?”  
  
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Neville. He passed his wand over his sopping robes to dry them and threw Harry a sheepish grin. “Can’t I drop in on my favourite colleague for a cuppa now and then?”  
  
He could, and he did: Professors Potter and Longbottom could often be found together, either down in the greenhouses, or up in the former’s office, laughing over a cup of tea. (“Gassing like old women,” Ginny remarked cheekily.) Neville, now able to be the teacher he had always needed, had turned into a confident – but kind, always kind – man with a wit he’d kept quite hidden during his years at school, and Harry thoroughly enjoyed the time they spent together. Lately, since Ron had become a school governor (something Harry found it hard to get his head around, and wasn’t entirely convinced that it had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy also being one) he was sometimes able to join them, and the three were very merry after their get-togethers.  
  
Harry passed Neville a mug and, clutching his own, lowered himself into the armchair opposite.  
  
“Cheers,” said Neville, taking a sip. He shot Harry a look over the top of his mug. “I’ll tell you now, by the way - James has got detention with me.”  
  
“What’s he done now?” Harry asked with a sigh. He was resigned to the knowledge that his eldest son, now fourteen, was partial to mischief. It was generally harmless, but Harry had always been insistent that he should not receive special treatment from the teachers because his father was a colleague.  
  
“Incident with a watering can,” Neville informed him, sounding quite amused. “We’ll leave it at that.”  
  
“Well, don’t let him off lightly –”  
  
“I won’t, don’t worry. He can help me with the Fanged Geraniums.”  
  
“Good.” Harry watched the rain for a moment, then asked, “how’s Al getting on, d’you think?”  
  
His younger son had started Hogwarts in September. He was inclined to be much quieter than James, but had been much comforted by the fact that he would still see his Dad every day. Still, Harry couldn’t help worrying more about his middle child than the other two, who were altogether more robust.  
  
“He seems fine to me,” Neville, Al’s godfather, assured Harry. “He’s getting a bit more confidence, I think; he looks more comfortable with the rest of his class now. He’s not sticking by Rose so much, though they’re still close.”  
  
“It’s a decent year, on the whole,” said Harry. “Even with a Malfoy …”  
  
“You know, I quite like Scorpius,” Neville mused. “It’s stupid, but … when I first had him in my class, I almost felt a bit – a bit _intimidated_ by him.”  
  
“That’s not stupid,” said Harry at once.  
  
“It is, a bit,” said Neville, smiling. “But actually, he’s not a bad kid. I don’t think he’s much like his father.”  
  
Harry had to agree. Scorpius Malfoy had struck him initially as being rather arrogant, and perhaps he was a little, but he had none of his father’s bluster or bravado. He kept mostly to himself and a few others, preferring not to be in the centre of attention (rather like Al) and rarely made himself noticed. Harry had observed from overhearing some comments that he had quite a sharp, acerbic wit, but he didn’t seem at all cruel. Indeed, Harry had to wonder if one day Al and Scorpius might find themselves friends.  
  
How things changed! He never could have imagined it … and yet, there was so much he could have never predicted. To think that he had spent six years in this castle, all the while grateful to have survived his last ordeal, never knowing what the future would bring, and certainly never knowing that he would one day return as a teacher. He had taken the job just before Al’s birth, when James was a toddler: twelve years later, and he had never once regretted the decision. It meant that he had not had to let his children go, not really, and they had grown up knowing the castle and the grounds, Hagrid and the rest of the staff. Although he had been unable to shake off his celebrity, at school he was Professor Potter, and the students grumbled about his homework as much as they did with any other teacher.  
  
And how funny, he thought, looking at Neville, that the two of them – whose lives had really been closely intertwined from the moment the prophecy had been made – should have both ended up here. He could almost see, in that moment, the eleven-year old Neville, who had stood up to Harry, Ron and Hermione and in doing so showed the bravery he never even knew he had.  
  
“I’ve got some cuttings you and Ginny might like for the garden, by the way,” Neville said, interrupting Harry’s wandering thoughts. “Though you really must keep on top of the weeds –“ He broke off. “What are you smiling at?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, nothing,” said Harry, feeling very content indeed. “Nothing.”  
  



End file.
